A Portrait of a Broken Mind
by Servant of Fire
Summary: AU Series 3: In which, John discovers Mary Morstan and Sebastian Moran are closely related. One night he walks in on Sherlock sleeping shirtless to find some grotesque scarring an a history of torture that has all been to save his life. This changes their lives together as slowly Sherlock loses and finds his fabulous mind again.
1. Chapter 1

**A Portrait of a Broken Mind:**

 **-Chapter 1-**

John is a complete basket case and more than okay with it. Mary's cruelty was enough to drive any nostalgia that remained for her clean from his mind. Forget his heart. It was dead on arrival to her arms.

He shrugs his coat off, smiling at the smell of tea and a burned stack of crumpets. Mrs. Hudson's cards friends are over again. They laugh and talk like the world is going on swimmingly. Never mind that Sherlock just returned revenant from his understood grave. Never mind that John had nearly been mutilated only days ago by his bride.

John ascends the stairs, fancying a shower. He allows a smile. Everything will be alright. Mrs. Hudson is happy. He's home now, after his little misadventure with love. Home with the dear matriarch of Baker Street.

He pauses at the stairwell landing realization pervading him. He's home with the man he has come to love as his brother. Yes, and more than a brother. Sherlock is the entire family tree to John. A flourishing vine of platonic affections in his blood. He is every love language purified to one fraternal expression. To say that he's grown to adore him is an understatement.

John listens to see if Sherlock is using up all the hot water in their shower. He smiles, the smell of cinnamon wafting from their living room. Probably those cookies Mrs. Hudson was trying out. So Sherlock had attempted to eat today after all. John chuckles.

Say, why not pass by his mate's room? See if he's awake still. The lounge area is decidedly empty even though it's still rather early, for Sherlock anyway. He knows that he's home though. He saw his scarf on the coat rack.

John steals to the doorway of Sherlock's room and leans against the jam. It's a bit awkward, this. Peering in on a 33-year-old as if he is a child that John is responsible for. John sniffs back a soft laugh. Sherlock may not like it but he is a bit like a child in some respects.

The moonlight pours from the window panes like cream over Sherlock's tea brown bed sheets. He lays on top of them. It takes the moon's eclipse for John to realize that Sherlock is only half dressed. He is wearing a pair of lounge pants over his lower half. His upper half is…

John feels something cold go over his skin that he hasn't quite registered yet. He creeps closer. Yes, he's standing over Sherlock's bed. Yes, he understands that this is a violation of the young detective's privacy, but still, this is important, isn't it? Because something is wrong with Sherlock's back. It doesn't take medical expertise for Doctor Watson to see that.

Christ!

John is praying now to that same Messiah he's wrestled with since Afghanistan. He covers his mouth to keep from crying out and waking Sherlock.

Sherlock shifts a bit in his sleep, turning his face away from the moonlit window. That one motion highlights the grotesque web of scar tissue that lines his shoulders. Some of them pinch together, at last forcing up blood. Sherlock groans in his sleep. His hand goes up to scratch at the base of his shoulders. He sits up with a hiss, as a piece of stainless steel sticks in his fingers.

He pants. Then, trembling, he bows over his bed and vomits in a tiny rubbish bin.

It takes a moment of heaving and holding his stomach, rocking back and forth from the intense pain, for Sherlock to realize that John is here. His face contorts in confusion and then his eyes are wide with unexplained sadness and shame.

"Oh! Oh, my God! I'm so sorry! I had no idea you were...What are you doing home so early?" Sherlock reaches for his dressing gown and scrambles to pull it over his bleeding shoulders.

"Stop it." John reaches out and presses a hand to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock stops and looks down, using the hem of the garment to dab sick from his lips. John follows his first natural reaction and hugs Sherlock from the side, even as he pulls the dressing gown away and lets it slip to the floor.

"Why were you in my room?" Sherlock's voice is lacking its usual bite, genuinely curious. John isn't aware until he speaks that he's been crying into Sherlock's hair for a while already.

"Ahh…? Honestly, I just wondered why you were in bed so early? I came by to see if you were awake, I was going to ask you...I think I meant to ask if you'd used the shower and all the hot water. Honestly, I don't remember what I wanted to tell you now." John lays his face deeper in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock takes John's trembling hand.

"Um...It's...It's alright. I'm very sorry that you had to come across them by accident like that. It was...I suppose it was a bit not good?" Sherlock swallows as John lifts him to sitting and takes his face in both hands.

"For God's sakes, really, Sherlock? A bit? A bit?! My God...How did...How did they…?" John is weeping completely unabashed now, tears spilling to his lips as a little clicking sob escapes them. He realizes now that scars exist on Sherlock's bare chest as well. A sinking feeling overtakes John. Every inch of Sherlock that clothes normally hide is a complete network of mutilations, isn't it?

Sherlock smiles sheepishly.

"You've got questions, mm?" He cups John's cheeks in his hands as John bows his head to his chest and sobs wretched, gutted sobs.

"Oh? Please...Um...Please don't cry. It's not so bad, is it? It doesn't hurt that terribly. Not like it used to." Sherlock ruffles John's hair a bit with his fingers. John lifts his head, takes a deep breath. He reaches up and kisses Sherlock's forehead in a silent expression of gratitude that the dear man is even still alive. Sherlock's eyes go wide, expecting John to speak now.

"Okay. Mm...I'll ask my questions later. And I'm sorry to upset you, but you've got to let me be a bit weepy, eh? Can't help it at all. This...What they've done to you...It'd bring Satan to tears, mate." John shakes his head, noticing the sick expression washing over Sherlock's wan face. He cups his neck in his shaking hand again and smiles.

"I'll ask you later. Come on. We're going to use the shower to catch your blood instead. I need to examine this. I don't know why you didn't tell me sooner? This could turn into a permanent handicap if it goes untreated long." John stands up and beckons Sherlock out of bed with shaky hands. Swallowing, Sherlock takes John's hands and allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

"Come on...Let's...Let me have a look this, okay? Think you'll need to be sick again?" John cringes as Sherlock presses his face into his upturned palm groaning morbidly from a bout of pain that has set his knees to knocking.

"I'm...alright." Sherlock shivers. John wraps an arm around his shoulders.

"I know. You will be when I'm done. Come on then." John wraps one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulders. They take a shaky path to the shower room, Sherlock stumbling several times on the way. John is crying with every step, biting his lip to keep from losing his breath from the sobs he's choking back so as not to startle Sherlock. He's been in heavy firefight combat. He's still never seen anything with this amount of gore to it.

How the hell is Sherlock even alive?!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

This is all vaguely poetic. John feels a strange nostalgia from blood. This is the paradox of a physician's mind. He's tended Sherlock time and time again in the past. Now, he's got him sitting in their shower, dressed still in those pants. Blood trickles from the wound on his back.

John is using a scalpel to gently pry a piece of a broken dagger from the bone matter of Sherlock's right shoulder blade. Sherlock is holding the shower bar for dear life. His other hand cradles his forehead. Raven curls spell out icons and question marks over his hand as locks tumble to his wrist. John smiles. He looked up the definition of _Sherlock_ once. Leave it to this dear man to be contrary even with his name. It meant "fair-haired" or "blonde" and he was the polar opposite of fair-haired. This served as a welcome distraction to his other hand that slipped and trembled in pain even as he gripped the shower bar with all his upper body strength.

"Hey, I've got it. It's a bit stuck. Got to be careful not to let it slip. It could cut-Easy! It could slice into your spine…" John reaches a hand to Sherlock's inkjet hair and quietly smooths it down. He means to calm Sherlock who is close to having a pain-induced seizure.

"I...Um…"Sherlock's teeth grit so tight that John hears the enamel crunch. He groans, sliding the dagger free. Sherlock lets out an animal groan. Any other man would have screamed. Sherlock's torment is too severe for it to register with any of pain's normal emotions. The groan is less than human. John hears the exact dehumanizing effect on Sherlock's person in that one terrible sound.

Sherlock bows forward, quaking. A gush of blood quietly bubbles over John's hands. He discreetly sets to suppressing it, using a package of clotting powder. It stings on a good day. Sherlock hisses and gurgles, hands shooting out reaching for anything. John gives him his arm. Sherlock digs into it with his fingernails. Helpless, lacking the air it would take to expel the scream normal circumstances would have afforded him, he is sobbing now himself. John realizes it belatedly, as he finally stops the bleeding. He begins to suture the wound.

"Hey…" John pauses the stitching and kisses Sherlock's face from the side, drawing his hair off his now sweat laced forehead. Sherlock is sobbing like a small child into his hand now. He shakes his head and laughs and quietly resumes crying like a confused baby. John feels his soul roll and thrash about in his gut. His heart flounders in its own blood. This is too horrible for words.

"Who did this to you?" John's voice is airy. Quiet like the desert after dark. Sherlock shudders.

"The alias was Sebastian Moran. You knew her as Mary Morstan…"Sherlock grins. John goes stiff. The arm Sherlock is clutching to goes limp.

"My...My former girlfriend...My former girlfriend tortured you?" John has not yet registered that Mary's alias was male and the name of James Moriarty's best friend rumored lover.

"Well...There are two Sebastian Morans. One of them, the male one, the gay lover of Moriarty,...Er, I shot him in the head. The other was Sebastian's little sister, Clarice. Clarice Moran pretended to be her brother for a long time while she was on the revenge mission. She assumed a civilian identity when she made it back to England after Mycroft bailed me out of her torture dungeon beneath a cartel in Eastern Europe. This civilian persona was Mary Morstan (a combination of the names Moran and Sebastian, the brother who became her manifesto )

Sherlock speaks slowly and almost inaudibly. He sucks air through his teeth. Little sobs escape him between his measured words. John feels like he is cherry-picking grenades. He swallows one, is blown apart inside, and then he swallows another. Sherlock was tortured by his former girlfriend?!

"John...I...I need to tell you the truth." Sherlock took John's hand, rendering the doctor mortally fearful immediately.

John came around to face Sherlock's ice blue and tears to wine stains eyes. The honesty in them.

"I...I never told you. Too eventful then. But...I faked my death, went away to protect you directly from the Moran siblings. See, Moriarty had three guns trained on my three closest loved ones if I didn't agree to his...to his suicide pact. The one trained to you was Sebastian Moran. Killing him...Taking down his assassin ring, was the darkest path of my absence. I...I want you to understand. I haven't told you until you found out on your own because...Because I haven't wanted you to know that I was mutilated to keep you safe." Sherlock bows his head as if this is something to be mortally ashamed of.

John blacks out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

When John comes to, he's lying on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock lays beside him, dressed all the way now in a soft white cotton shirt and his crimson dressing gown. The hem of his lounge pants legs is wet. John figures this means that he'd fallen into his medical cleaning solution or against the shower's control and Sherlock had gotten splashed fishing him free.

"Terribly sorry...I had no idea you'd react that way." Sherlock has decidedly laid himself closer to the window. He looks down over London, eyes dancing in the moonlight. John shifts to look at him more directly. His face is grave with sorrow. Something John has never noticed on it in their life together before his apparent suicide.

"Well, how'd you think I should've reacted, mm? You just told me something profoundly terrible. It's one thing for a man's best friend to be butchered by his ex and he finds out about it. It's completely another for that to happen to said best friend on said man's behalf." John feels like he might faint again. Sherlock shakes his head ever so softly, raven curls fanning against the pillow he's propped so he's not completely lying on his wounded shoulder. John feels his heart in his throat. Only now he wonders how they got here. It occurs to him that this dear man has struggled with his dead weight all the way back to the bedroom and has at last collapsed from exhaustion after a no doubt god awful time of pain induced insomnia. John feels he may start weeping. Sherlock is a much better human than the doctor ever gave him credit for.

"Wait.."Sherlock's brow curls in outright confusion. He turns to face John, eyes dancing in the light from a taxi brushing softly down Baker Street.

"How do you mean I'm your best friend? You've got all sorts of friends and all of them are better people than I am certainly." Sherlock's grimace brings home to John how to truly he depreciated Sherlock in former years. John reaches a hand to Sherlock's face. Sherlock is even more confused than he has been this entire night.

"Um...No...No, you see...There are friends who call you and take you for drinks. Friends that may have better conversational skills and all that rot. Then there are the kinds of friends that build a home with you and throw themselves on the edge of an assassin's knife to keep you living longer…"John is in tears again, but they fall much more calmly now. Sherlock's face ever so softly shifts from consternation to vulnerable realization.

"I should have...perhaps...made you aware of that...more tactfully?" Sherlock grimaces. John laughs.

"Sherlock...Tact is not something you possess. It's totally okay." John takes Sherlock's hand. He wants to lean in and hug him again, but he's almost too dizzy to move.

Sherlock leans back against the pillow, letting John hold onto his hand which still trembles from pain. He stares at the moon washed roof, blinking in complete amazement. John feels Sherlock counting his fingers by moving each one once and moving on to the next then as if he's trying to make sure they are real, truly placed over his heart. John smiles at that waiting for him to speak.

"People would talk if they could see us." Sherlock smiles. John lets out an exaggerated huff.

"Tomorrow the papers will say I married you and we had mutant sociopath babies." John smiles. Sherlock's face twists in bewilderment.

"Right…Well now, I don't intend to have any babies with you, Doctor Watson, real or imagined." Sherlock looks sidelong at John. John feels like he's going to be sick although he manages a laugh. Something in Sherlock's eyes says he's barely grounded by John's hand and barely distracted by the stupidity of their banter.

"It...I hope you know that it's rather silly you are so upset by what I...what I did. In her torture lab, I mean. It was...You know, it was fine...I mean, I'm...um...alright." Sherlock's lips tremble with the fib. John shakes his head.

"No, you're not. Stop that." John gives Sherlock's hand a firm squeeze.

"That's what I'm supposed to say though, isn't it? Isn't that easier to hear than asking me how it all happened?" Sherlock tilts his head. John sighs.

"It's not easier to hear if it's a polar opposite lie." John leans heavily into his half of the pillows. He feels faintness coming on yet again.

"I...I don't know if I can...If I can talk about what happened." Sherlock's eyes are wide now. John nods.

"We don't have to do it now if you don't want to." John smiles.

"Oh no, I want to. But in all honesty, John, I'm not alright. She wasn't the only one you know. The thing that made it worse was that it happened on serial repeat and Mycroft let it happen because he-he didn't approve of my friendship with you. Thought it was a liability to his operation. So, when the case had to do with you, he pulled out. And so one lab, one that your lady friend ran, was only one of more like 30 run by Moran's finest hired guns each." Sherlock looks off. John blinks. He wants and needs to be strong for Sherlock, but he's not sure that he can. What in God's name does he mean he's been in 30 torture labs in the minus 3 years he's been gone?

"If talking about it, helps you understand it…"John's voice dies in his throat. Sherlock is subconsciously shivering all over again. He stares out the window, swallowing deeply.

"I...I think...I think my mind may be broken. It will be like one of Hercules' trials fixing it." Sherlock smiles sheepishly looking away into space. John nods and rolls him over, nudging him closer until he can wrap his arms around him and press his forehead to his own.

"Okay, this is ridiculous. We look ridiculous. Still...If we start small...Something like this. This is a quiet place. It's not like anyone will know about this conversation or how completely pitiful we look. You can...You can tell me if you want. But you don't have to. It's your choice." John swallows.

"I don't remember everything. The first time I was captured on purpose as a sort of diversion. The second I was given up for dead by Mycroft's men. The last time was an auction. I bought you more moments of life by agreeing to more bizarre forms of torture. Which...um...Which I did until I could solve her ploy and stop her connections from taking you out. Since it involved national security, Mycroft brought me back in to finish the job…"Sherlock feels safer held like a child. He begins his painful story, haltingly, limping like the slaughterhouse lamb. John holds him afraid if he doesn't he will melt.

They'll be like this until morning though neither man will notice so caught up in the tale are the both of them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

The days following that brutal first revelation opened a door of unprecedented horror and vulnerability to Sherlock and John. Horror, because John had an impossible time wrapping his mind around the little he was told. Vulnerability, because their relationship completely changed after that.

John couldn't think about the methods of all that was done to Sherlock. He couldn't bring himself to think back on that conversation's exact wording. So, he instead wrote down the medical consequences in a "patient journal" he created just for Sherlock.

"What is that?" Sherlock came limping in one night after taking a case on his own. John smiled up at him.

"I've taken what you told me a few nights back and I'm logging down the medical names for all of it. So, I will know exactly what sort of treatment plan I should come up with for you." John reached up and caressed Sherlock's face as he leaned over to see the journal. Sherlock smiled with gratitude that would have looked alien on his face before.

"You're very accurate. Some of these I described only vaguely." Sherlock traced his finger over a column of text that read as follows: E _visceration, surgically prolonged. Partial impalation. Hip dysplasia in a male patient, caused by partial impalation. Contusion with an insertion of a small chemical bag in the viscera. Note: Chemical substance may have been an undocumented hallucinogenic. Note cont. Minor internal incineration is to be expected at the contusion site, resulting in internal 2nd and 3rd-degree burns. Minor damage to the spinal column, the result of prolonged partial impalation. Chemical castration followed by violent surgical castration, resulting in temporary renal dysfunction. Note: The second attempt was the direct process of the evisceration and resulted in massive blood loss and laceration damage to the pelvic bone. Multiple stabbing wounds causing intramuscular_ _malformation in poorly sutured wounds..._ The list continued, but John wasn't even a twelfth of the way done. John shuddered.

"Yes, well, I'm a doctor. You're a detective." John tapped the pencil to the paper, trying to say anything to break the awkward silence. Sherlock had winced when he saw that John had listed the brutal chemical castration episode. He had only vaguely described that to John, but John was extremely good at his job. Sherlock was a bit embarrassed by some of the things that had happened to him. Doctor Watson smiled at his patient, reassuring him that he had no reason to feel that way.

"Right…?" Sherlock sucked his teeth, trying to find something to say. John swallowed. He thought he'd better play the part of the doctor now.

"It's going to be alright. Now that you've told me, we can reverse any severe complications to the healing process. You shouldn't have any major disabilities down the road." John nodded. Sherlock smiled.

"Good. Knew I could count on you for that." Sherlock smiled again, but this was sadder, more shamed. John nodded toward the shower.

"You've got a week's worth of rain sticking to you, mate. Why not shower?" John waved with his hand. Sherlock shrugged his coat off.

"Thank you, I needed your permission." Sherlock called over his shoulder with a teasing purr that was meant to sound hateful but only made John smile.

John continued his task until he heard a loud thud. One that would have startled most people. Being an army medic, John just felt his stomach drop with concern. He got up, and carefully jogged into Sherlock's room.

The young man had simply passed out from breathing in the shower water's steam while previously light-headed. John swallowed, finding him naked on the floor near his bed. Now that he saw all of the woundings he had chronicled on paper, it was so much more a real and brutal realization.

"Sherlock?" John swallowed the urge to cry from having seen the whole bloody picture of Sherlock's recent past. He had a job to do. Slapping Sherlock's cheek got him no response. His young friend would be out cold for a while.

First, John set to proving what had caused Sherlock's fainting spell and reached the same conclusion described above. Then, he checked his wounds to make sure they weren't bleeding externally or internally which would contribute to his fainting spell.

He found a new bruise on his stomach, probably from bumping up against a table or another object while he was off at work. That was a truly minor setback to the injury, but the pain alone was enough to make him light-headed.

"Well, you're not dying, so that's good." John wrapped Sherlock again in the towel he'd had on his person before he fell down. He then proceeded to dry him off with another towel and dress him like he was a child.

"You've gotten scrawnier than ever before, haven't you, you little rooster, eh? Alright...Come on." John scooped Sherlock off the floor. He carried him bridal style on his way to the settee where he'd left his medical kit.

"Oh my God! Dear God is he?! Is he?!" Mrs. Hudson was the last person John expected to run into as he made his way nervously to the living room.

"No, no, dear, don't worry. He fainted." John smoothed Sherlock's wet hair down. He was slightly miffed that there was no struggle with his weight, only with his greater height as he shuffled across the room.

Mrs. Hudson was shaking. She had dropped a tin of cookies on the floor. Must have been coming upstairs to share them with her boys.

"Why on earth has he fainted? Is he...He's not using drugs again, is he? Oh, John!" Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth. John smiled.

"No...He...Dear, when Sherlock was away he was captured and hurt by some pretty scary people. He still has some health problems because of it. I think he was cold from being rained on earlier, had the shower too hot. Must have fainted from breathing in all that steam while he was already a bit dizzy." John knew he was chattering, but for now, it was keeping them both calm. He was surprised at his own capacity for gentleness when he laid Sherlock down and adjusted his body for potential shock. He pulled a light blanket over Sherlock's limp body and smiled at his work. Unfortunately, this little domestic pause gave Mrs. Hudson time to process.

"My Sherlock's been tortured?!" Mrs. Hudson was crying now. John could kick himself for not breaking that at a better time.

He went to her then and hugged her close.

"Shh...He's going to be alright." John realized even he didn't believe that at the moment.

"But, if that's the case, then why's he fainting from taking a bloody shower!" Mrs. Hudson was frantic. John kissed her forehead.

"Well, he's been in a bit of pain and I think he gets light-headed sometimes. I suppose the medicine I've had him on is not a strong enough dosage." John proceeded to release Mrs. Hudson and move to Sherlock to tend to him. He prepped his arm to inject a better, non-conflicting painkiller into his arm instead once he got him conscious. Mrs. Hudson started cleaning up her cookies. Then, she cried out softly, sobbing all over again.

"My Sherlock's in that much pain from being tortured?" Mrs. Hudson had to sit down. John was blinking back tears now. He knelt near Sherlock again and started gently patting his cheek.

"We're just gonna get him to come to and then give him this so he can sleep, yeah?" John laid the needle down on the table beside him and gave Sherlock a gentle shake. Mrs. Hudson watched nervously. Sherlock was still unresponsive.

"Sherlock? Hey, you need to wake up, mate so I can give you this other medicine. It will make you sleep until Christmas, but you'll feel better." John leaned close to Sherlock's face hoping the sound of his voice would finally wake him up. It worked. His eyes fluttered open and he looked from John to Mrs. Hudson and back to John with extreme nervousness.

"You...You fainted from the shower." John explained, lamely.

"I figured." Sherlock apparently could make deductions while mostly unconscious now. John laughed softly.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" John indicated the syringe. Sherlock nodded sheepishly.

John injected the painkiller without another word. Sherlock was smiling at him like he'd just told him he'd won a billion dollars before he finally nodded off. John smiled.

"Okay, that's good. Sleep it off." John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair one more time. Then, he stood up and went to Mrs. Hudson to treat her for her sudden scare.

"Want to go to the kitchen to talk about it? Let him sleep?" John eased Mrs. Hudson to her feet.

"I...Oh, right. Yes, let's let him sleep." Mrs. Hudson leaned pitifully on John and they both shot one sad and awkward little glance back at Sherlock who seemed to be at heavenly peace for the moment.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5:**

Their timing had been poor before. Still, the revelation of Sherlock's serious condition came at the worst possible time. When Mycroft allowed Sherlock to work with New Scotland Yard again as a government contractor.

"Ah, so the old dog has come back to his vomit, eh?" Dimmock was rather cheerful to see Sherlock rifling through files on Lestrade's desk. John figured this must have been the first chance he saw to destroy someone since the consulting detective had been away. Sherlock didn't so much as look up from what he was doing. That's when Lestrade came in.

"Sherlock, what are you doing in here? I thought...I thought we agreed to meet only in private." Lestrade frowned. The Chief Superintendent was here as well. He was glowering.

"Well, I had a rather hot call from a mysterious someone in Parliament, said Holmes here has secretly always been one of theirs. As in, they bloody well pay him on contracts and consider his little runs for us a field exercise. Pssh, almost like they're spying on us, bullying us into running things like they do up at the Queen's level. Little lap dogs." To hear it from the Chief, all of the men here were jealous. John felt his stomach twist, but why he didn't know. Lestrade whistled, but brushed it off.

"So, I'm guessing that's why he's allowed back in here, right? What are you looking for, huh? Maybe I can get it for you?" Lestrade looked to his superior then directed his question to Sherlock. The Chief nodded reluctantly. He brushed by Sherlock and scowled.

"Of course, if you try anything later...I'll have to use Dr. Watson's methods to keep you straight, right? An eye for an eye thing?" The Chief smiled. John stepped back, taking on a defensive position.

"You'll do what?" His voice would make the devil's blood run cold on a good day.

"You know like maybe he'll just casually need to call out on sick day." The Chief thrust his fist into Sherlock's stomach with all the strength in his upper body, using the desk they were standing near to propel himself. He'd clearly been meaning to do that for a long time, to get back at John for chinning him all those years ago. John's face melted in horror at what came next. He made it look as though he'd casually tripped for the cameras, in case anyone tried to squeal on him. Then the Chief got up and backed away before anyone could process what he'd done.

Sherlock reeled over the desk. The Chief lingered, smiling, a bit pleased with himself at the little "oof" sound that came from Sherlock. But then, Sherlock was panting, seething hissing sounds escaping him. John's face said that he would consider murder later if it meant preventing this from ever happening again. He was frozen in place as if he was trying to remember how to physically operate.

"Ha, you wanker…" The Chief walked off calling a few more explicit words over his shoulder about what a sissy Sherlock was and how no government charge had a real place among them. Some rubbish that no one could call him on; he was the boss.

Dimmock and Lestrade's eyes never left Sherlock. John was reluctant to look at him but finally did.

"Come on now, he didn't hit you all that hard? Just a little warning shot to keep Watson in line's all." Dimmock scoffed. John's hands were shaking.

"Oh, Christ. Not again!" And it was John's reaction that told the two DIs something was wrong.

"John, what is it?" Lestrade raised his hands in mock surrender. John was ignoring them like they didn't exist as he rushed to Sherlock. Sherlock whose panting had turned into coughing. He doubled over the desk and began to vomit up mouthfuls of black blood.

"Dear God!" All the color drained from Dimmock's face and he stepped back, horrified. Lestrade was frozen in place. John stepped to work.

"Alright. Hey...It's alright. This isn't as bad as it looks, Sherlock. Look at me." John turned Sherlock's face to him. The young man crunched his teeth together around the pain and the blood pouring down his chin. He took John's shoulder.

"The file! Tell me I haven't-"Sherlock's eyes rolled.

"Oh! No, don't worry about that now. We'll worry about the case after we see which one of your sutures he knocked loose, okay?" John let Sherlock lean against him as he lifted his shirt. He'd bandaged most of the surgery he'd had to re-do near the site of Sherlock's terrible evisceration. Lestrade panted, unable to see exactly.

"What sutures?" He stepped closer, but he had a feeling he'd not be getting a direct answer or even make eye contact with the irate doctor.

"Does it hurt or is it more numb?" John patted Sherlock's cheek. The man was shaking now, knees knocking.

"I...I felt something move?" Sherlock's brow twisted. John cringed. Then he took his belt off.

"Here. Bite down." He pushed the belt between Sherlock's teeth. Sherlock closed his eyes.

John reached to Sherlock's stomach and discreetly performed a minor surgery that made Dimmock vomit in a rubbish bin. Sherlock groaned into the belt, sounding like a dog crushed under a car with little-muffled yips and whines. None of it sounded remotely human.

Finally, John was done. He shakily pulled the syringe for Sherlock's pain meds from his bag. Only now did Lestrade realize John had been carrying a large medic kit over his shoulders almost every time they'd met in passing since Sherlock's return. Why was that? How had he not seen that his consultant had been so seriously ill?

"Alright. Alright, believe it or not, you're actually going to be fine in a few hours. It's just something we had to take care of quickly or it could have gotten a lot worse. Now…"John pulled Sherlock's coat off and rolled up his sleeve, prepping his arm to give him the dose.

"I've ruined his desk. But the files...I think they're fine. Lestrade...I couldn't find the financial report for Lancaster Holdings. I was following a lead I have considerable evidence for already there. On the Alfred Rothing case?"Sherlock resumed a completely professional air, completely unaware that he still had a beard of blood trailing his chin and scarily white throat. Lestrade's eyes were wide.

"Sherlock, that's in my car!" Lestrade was deeply upset. Sherlock cringed.

"Oh, my fault. Right, I should have texted first, sorry. I just...We were close to the Yard and I thought you'd be sensible and make copies." Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled, oblivious as to how insolent his voice sounded then. Normally, Lestrade would have been offended but he was floored by Sherlock's calm given whatever this horrible situation actually was.

"I've ruined his desk...They'll have to replace it. Look, John, it's already drying into the wood." Sherlock tried to brush some of his blood away with his sleeve. John looked up, swatting gently at his hands.

"I'd not worry about the desk. That's on the Chief, the least he can do for knocking an evisceration wound loose." John spat the last three words. Lestrade's knees knocked.

"E-Evisceration?" Lestrade was ash. Dimmock sat down hard on one of Lestrade's chairs.

"Mm, yes, surgical evisceration. In a cartel somewhere outside Kiev. No worries, Detective Inspector. It was a case on government contract. Nothing to do with your division, mm?" Sherlock looked over as John finished the injection.

"Okay, so, I think you can fax whatever the hell we came in here for, yeah, Lestrade? Let's go back to the flat, Sherlock. You'll be fine, but you've lost a lot of blood. I suppose it just started flooding your stomach. He hit something at the base of your lung as well." John helped Sherlock to his feet, cursing under his breath. Sherlock nodded. Lestrade made a note that John was alienating himself from him on purpose by using his surname rather than his given name as he used to. Even that didn't seem to matter now, with something about blood flooding Sherlock's stomach and injured lungs and all that. What the hell had been done to him?!

"I'll phone you when I have finished. The case's good as solved now. Just need that paper to cross a few Ts." The tone Sherlock was taking with Lestrade implied that whatever bit of comradery they'd had before was completely gone now. He'd been curt before, now he was militaristic and robotic.

John gathered all of his tools and wrapped Sherlock's arm around his shoulder. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small rag. One that already had many dried bloodstains on it. He wiped Sherlock's mouth for him.

"Right...It's okay. Promise you the random bleeding isn't as serious as it looks. Sort of like when you get a sore in your mouth from eating candies, yeah?" John kept saying reassuring sounding things to Sherlock almost like he was talking to a child. He carried him outside and disappeared around the corner.

Lestrade turned to Dimmock.

"What in hell?" They said it at the same time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6:**

"That was absolutely ridiculous. A complete outrage!" John had always waited until they were home to explode. His angry tirade around the flat rose and lowered in volume over the tea kettle whistles. Sherlock sat curled at the table, face wan from bleeding, mouth hanging open in pain. He bristled every time John's voice rose. The angry young doctor failed to see it.

"Can you believe it? I mean, can you really believe the nerve that-that absolute-"John slammed the tea kettle down on the table, failing to come up with the right explicit word for the Chief Superintendent.

Sherlock's body didn't just flinch, it convulsed. He snapped to attention as if his spine was a bullwhip. His fists went up defensively, guarding his body in a martial arts stance. John looked up just then and saw the split second reaction.

"Sherlock? What, what is it?" John thought for a moment bringing up the Chief was upsetting his friend. Then he realized with gut-dropping horror.

"What? No...God, no. Hey…"John held up his hands. Sherlock was panting, eyes wide. For the first time in John's life, he saw raw terror in Sherlock's eyes. He was afraid. What was more, he was afraid of John.

"Easy...The kettle? I'm sorry I set it down so hard. I wasn't thinking. I was just really that hot about it all. Are you alright?" John stepped closer. Sherlock growled. John realized then what this was.

"Shh...Sherlock. Hey...It's...It's alright. Did you think I was going to hurt you?" John made his voice quiet like he was talking to a newborn baby. Sherlock's face fell and he looked around perplexed, hands lowering from their defensive posture. John reached out to him.

"Stand up, if you can." John beckoned. Sherlock looked up, eyes fluttering now, dizzy.

"Mm?" Sherlock's head tilted to the side.

"Stand up." John beckoned to his friend again. Sherlock was reluctant yet but cleared his throat. With a wince, he rose to stand on ginger feet. He sucked his teeth, eyes trained to his hands which tapped the table now.

John came closer, arms out.

"Please...I want you to look at me." John's voice took on a much greater depth now. Like they were old, old men and had comforted each other from war scars so many times before now. Sherlock looked up, confounded. John saw that he was near tears.

"I...I am so sorry I scared you. I didn't even think when I sat that down like that. Shh, come here, please...Please, don't think that... God, Sherlock. Do not think that I would ever intentionally harm you. Okay? I've been rough...Listen, I've been rough with you before-" John's face fell when Sherlock's face crumpled in a ridiculous expression that was the stoic in him trying to control a revelation of sadness. Sherlock gasped and fell into John's arms heavily, exhausted. John drew him as close as he could without further hurting him.

"But I swear to God, knowing what you did for me...I would never hurt you now. Never." John laid his face against Sherlock's shoulder. The famously stoic detective was weeping. John had seen Sherlock cry before, but that was either an act to manipulate an investigation or a physical reaction from pain. This was purely generated by sadness and fear.

This was a historic moment. Most people would be gloating now to see Sherlock, who they thought so little of, finally reduced to tears. Not John. John's heart was torn clean in two to see the human finally emerging from the beautiful broken mind. He was crying softly too and pressed his palm to Sherlock's neck.

"I-I ...This is really stupid of me. I know. It's just that. Well, I was caught off guard. Why did I let myself be caught off guard? Stupid! See, I was too familiar with…I never was in danger in that place so I never worried about it. I should have thought of it though. Should always be prepared to...to get away, you know?" Sherlock's fragile attempt at reverting to the calculating man he was known to be was almost worse than a confession from his heart. John shook his head.

"This isn't stupid...It's amazing that you can keep so much of yourself composed given your circumstances. Really, the way you break down is beautiful. It's not like shattering, it's more like a crack in the ice." John ran his hand over Sherlock's back, noticing that his shoulders shivered upon touch. He simply couldn't register human contact without debating ulterior motives. John swallowed the urge to swear again.

"I...I am...I certainly am cracking up, though, aren't I? My body is like that ridiculous living puppet from the old story, right? I feel...I don't know, John, I physically feel like I'm made out of wood or something." Sherlock sucked his teeth and collapsed into the comfort that was John's strength.

"I can only imagine what it feels like."John drew a sharp breath at Sherlock's immediate response.

"Good, that's why I did it, wasn't it? Didn't want you to ever know how perfectly dreadful this actually is." Sherlock sort of laughed, sort of sobbed. It was the first human sound elicited from him since all this happened. Leave it to John Watson to draw out the human response.

"God!" John shook his head and took Sherlock's face, thumbing the streams of tears off his cheeks. Sherlock chuckled and clung to John's wrists, as John left his palms cupped over Sherlock's cheekbones. They looked up at each, laughing at how hard they were both crying. It was absolutely ridiculous.

"Do you want some blasted tea or not? I mean, for all that trouble, we might as well drink a few gallons each." John nodded to the kettle. Sherlock sniffed as John let him go. He took John by his collar before he could pull away and wiped his tears with the cuff of his sleeve. John spluttered as tears were swatted in his mouth and nose. Then they both laughed. All of this was becoming a new and ridiculous normal. Something to laugh about now and then.

"Definitely. Thanks." Sherlock looked over his shoulder thinking he heard something on the stairs. John took his arm as he poured his tea.

"Come back to earth for me, will you? Why don't we watch crap telly? Maybe it will help us both pretend we are somewhat stable for a few minutes, yeah?" John put Sherlock's teacup in his hand. Then he took his tea in one hand and Sherlock's wrist in the other. Thus, he led him to the settee.

They both had just begun to settle and watch Doctor Who when Mrs. Hudson led a flustered and mortified Lestrade into the living room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7:**

John was on his feet before he could think straight. He knocked the teacups onto the floor. Sherlock sighed and bowed his head into his hands.

Lestrade was twisting his hands in his coattails unsure how to say what he'd come to say, John felt damning words on the tip of his tongue. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to swing that sword. Lestrade was his friend once. In a way, he still was. It was just in such a far-flung sense that it was almost out of sight.

"John…I...I don't know if this was poorly timed or not. I can come back." Lestrade sucked his teeth. He eyed Sherlock curiously, afraid to address him. John nodded, feeling the blood sucked from his face.

"That's for him to decide, Greg." John thought maybe it was time to mend the hole he'd knocked in the crumbling fence. If they were going to part ways, they should do it peacefully, shouldn't they?

He swallowed and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock whose whole body shivered for a second, lifting a hand to his chest. He plucked a handkerchief from his blazer pocket, and spit blood into it. The bright red drew both of the other men to stare at him in a numb stupor.

"Let him say his peace, John. It's not like it could cause any more harm." Sherlock's voice was muted to a fault that was completely out of his character. He was shifting, sliding away from the person that they knew. Whoever this was, he was broken and old. Someone, they should be more gentle with, more respectful of than the Sherlock they'd known him to be.

"I...I, well…"Lestrade got light-headed. John pulled up a chair. Sherlock didn't look at him. He stared off into space, forehead resting against his trembling hand.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade swallowed and finally, the detective looked up, brow furrowed. He was a centenarian at that moment, smiling patiently at the young and foolish man seated before him.

"I...I'm sorry, mate. Sorry for all of it." Lestrade was near tears. Sherlock shook his head and waved it off.

"What in hell are you sorry for? You weren't any part of what's been done to me?" Sherlock shifted, hand going to the wound that the Chief had crushed blood from.

"I...Well, Mycroft told me some of why you went off and...Just today. I called him first and…"Lestrade swallowed, pressing his fist to his lips. Sherlock looked up at the roof.

"Oh, you called him, did you? Mm, how is he, then? I suppose I should care. I suppose that I don't really. He disowned me after it all. Sure he was glad to tell you all my failures, then."Sherlock was talking as if he was talking to himself. Lestrade and John exchanged a glance. Lestrade shrugged.

"Well, no. No, he told me that I should not trouble you. But...Well, I had to see if...I just wanted to make sure you were alright?" Lestrade bit his lip. With the old Sherlock, this would have been a poor choice of words. With this Sherlock, who was to say?

Sherlock let his head roll on the edge of the couch. His eyes were suddenly dead set on Lestrade as if deductively observing him for the first time. It occurred to John that perhaps Sherlock, after all his trauma, was unclear on all the details of who Lestrade was to him.

"It's...I suppose it's good of you to inquire as to my status, Inspector. To answer truthfully, I am not alright and I never will be. Not ever again. I wouldn't waste any more time wondering after me, then, if I were you." Sherlock's voice dropped an octave as he studied his old friend with smoldering sadness in his eyes. The rest of his face was cold and calculating to a fault that frightened his companions for a split second.

Lestrade gasped. Sherlock tried to smile. The Inspector swallowed a gasp and pulled the financial report Sherlock had been looking for earlier from his jacket.

"I brought you this…" Lestrade passed the paper to Sherlock. Sherlock held his finger up and coughed wretchedly into his handkerchief again. Blood rolled up from his lips, crimson and even purple now. His fingers were dyed indelibly with it. Growling, annoyed, he snatched the paper with his other clean hand.

"Thank you. Sorry. This...A bit irritating. I'll have it under control soon. Also, I won't be coming back into the Yard office anymore. Fax me things. John has a machine." Sherlock nodded dismissively at them both and bent to the task of reading the report, for whatever evidence he'd unearthed there.

Lestrade stared at him, slack-jawed. He wanted to say so many things, but he had no idea how to approach his old friend. Friend he had taken so for granted. That's why it surprised him deeply when John answered his questions for him:

"Greg...What you have to understand is...Sherlock, he sacrificed his life for us. For me and for you. It's so much worse than dying that I think...I think that you can understand that, right?" John ran his hand over his throat, trying not to cry. Sherlock did not look up. He had checked out on them, completely absorbed in his craft. It had become his anesthetic to reality.

"But...But why? Who did this to you?" Lestrade was struggling with tears now because Sherlock was talking out of his head.

"Oh, not important. I have solved the Lancaster Holdings case actually. It was obvious. Too obvious for my befuddled conscious to catch up with my mind. The man you are looking for is at Chelsea and Co's Marketing Firm on Trafalgar. I wonder why he couldn't see it? Silly little Inspector..." Sherlock passed the paper back to Lestrade. Lestrade who stared at him wide-eyed as he continued to talk to himself.

"Oh, why do they insist on being so horrified? It's not like it means anything, does it?"Sherlock eased himself to his feet then, turning away from them, pacing to the window.

"It's not as if there should be any tears from me, should there? I did what was required of me. Queen and country, all that rubbish. Bled and kept bleeding. And the bits I did _pro bono publico_ , for people I considered to be good colleagues away...That was right, wasn't it?" Sherlock coughed again, into his bare hands. He let his blood drip off his fingers, roll onto his trousers. He snickered then. He snickered completely oblivious of his mortified friends.

"It's all dreadfully unimportant. I was a machine. And machine I remain. It's just that they drew the god of their inspiration from my machine. It's just that the art, the design of unmaking the human genome was at their fingertips, perfectly encased in my volatile DNA. Ordinary people scream and make messes of themselves under their knives, but I...I could worship at the altar of their art form because I understood it. I suppose likewise I deserved it. What an obnoxious excuse for android I was...That genius could not walk as a human companion so it became obsolete...Soon I will be replaced by computers, friendlier faces with better emotional intelligence than I. Even the robots are better with people...Hmm..." Sherlock scoffed and slammed his blood-filled hands on the window glass, watching as said blood dripped and stained.

"I wonder why they come here, mm? Asking their questions...As if they could derive a different response from my computation. I wonder if the lesser pieces of my invention were cut and burned away in torment. It was all just a school of sorts. The academy of penance. If I could, I would use that knowledge to make sense of their silly little puzzles. Philosophy and gospel eluded me as long as I was flesh and bone…"Sherlock traced an equation in his blood, tilting his head in a sort of sorrowful fondness. Lestrade gasped a sob into his hand and stood up. He thought maybe he should leave and let Dr. Watson care for his peculiar patient. John was frozen where he stood.

"I would face the sun if I thought the light from it would somehow give me dimensions. Walk with them again. Their silly little worlds and lives. I could learn from their frequent haunts and do better this time. I won't, though, will I? Couldn't even enter a bloody office in their space without grave trouble. This...I think this bleeding is normal, isn't it? Oh, but I've not seen you in a while, dark blood, my somber friend." Sherlock smirked, showing all his teeth. It was a wolf-like expression.

Sherlock then snapped to. He turned to them, looking to each man for guidance. Where was he? How'd he get in here?

"Oh? Sorry...I was...I was thinking. I must not have noticed the both of you come in. Did you bring the file, Lestrade?" Sherlock folded his hands, unaware that blood now fell in soft tear droplets at his feet.

"It's on the table." Lestrade indicated with a shaking finger. John took a step forward.

"Your...your stomach wound is bleeding again. I should give you something for that. See, it's an inflammation of the viscera walls. It's not that it bleeds frequently, it just sort of leaks small amounts of blood from the sores upward into your stomach as if you had an ulcer. When your stomach gets full of the blood you can't digest, you have to expel it." John talked mechanically to keep from alerting his friend that he'd just had a psychotic episode.

"I...Oh, right. I remember now. The Chief, he must have unintentionally forced an internal sore to be irritated. John's been teaching me the medical terms and what not for my condition, Lestrade. It's very informative. I can use it in further investigations." Sherlock smiled at Lestrade then.

"Well, certainly, then. Alright, I'm going to...See myself out, then?"Lestrade nodded over his shoulder.

"I'll text you when I've solved the Lancaster thing…" Sherlock nodded, unaware that he already had. They chose not to tell him this.

"Right...Thanks, Sherlock. For everything you do. And, sorry." Lestrade nodded and fled.

"Mm, I wonder why he's so tense? Must have had a run in with the bloody Superintendent too, then?" Sherlock turned to John.

"Dear God, you look like you've seen a ghost. You alright?" Sherlock caught John whose knees were giving out. John felt like a heel then, knowing that he should be the one supporting Sherlock at this moment.

"I-Oh, I'm just...I didn't feel like seeing him after all that rubbish today. Here, let's talk about that medicine then. Come on." John took Sherlock's wrist, realizing then that this entire day would no doubt soon fade from his memory. Maybe that was for the best.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8:**

The day came at last when Sherlock, losing his mind, ducked out of Baker Street to find it again. John was in a panic. He hadn't known Sherlock in the days before his sobriety. He couldn't call on Mycroft now. The older brother didn't approve of Doctor Watson after all that had happened on his behalf. Like he'd point him in the right direction of the brother he'd bitterly disowned.

John was frantic. Even Lestrade had no clue. Lestrade was reluctant to talk to or about Sherlock after the recent history they had. John left off asking him.

He called Molly, in the end. She sounded distraught from the moment she picked up.

"I can't find him either, John. I've not known him much longer than Greg…" Molly's voice took on a dark sorrow that wasn't much like her. John felt his soul sinking to his feet.

"Did you know him back before he was…?" John couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Clean? Oh, sorry. I mean, when he still had problems with the drugs. Not really. Sherlock...Well, he nearly killed himself trying to beat the habit. Gave everything for his career, you know. It's what he loves most of all things." Molly's voice hitched and then, she drew a sharp breath.

"What?" John bristled. This was more of a "sparking idea" than an "all hope is lost" sharp breath.

"Well, I know some people who would know where Sherlock might go if he'd changed back into, um, old Sherlock. His homeless friends. He...He may never have told you, but there were about 6 months when Sherlock was around 17 that he was one of them. I never really knew why he told me that. He's told me lots of things he's never shared with anyone…" Molly's voice echoed around the smile John couldn't see.

"Wow...Oh, wow. Thank you, Molly, darling. You, dear, are his angel for sure." John was almost in tears he was so relieved. He already had an idea of who he should ask.

John headed Raz the Street Artist's direction directly after that conversation. He thought if anyone would have some insight into Sherlock's old street haunts it would be him.

What he wasn't expecting to find was Sherlock, with Raz. He wasn't blown out of his skull on drugs like John had expected. He was, of all things, busking for change.

Sherlock was perched on top of an overturned rubbish barrel. Some of the time he played random Bach phrases on his violin. John settled at Sherlock's feet, wondering why he'd chosen to stand like that on a platform made of trash while street people hurled coins at him that bounced off of his knees.

"Oi! Now, this is for charity, show some respect!" Raz painted a boundary line around Sherlock and gathered a fistful of the change into that ridiculous Death Frisbee hat Sherlock seemed to have brought just to annoy the crowd.

John was completely mesmerized by the classical strain of music when Sherlock did the completely unexpected. The musical chords changed to something of a soft rock strain. John had never even heard Sherlock so much as hum along to mainstream music. What in the world was he about to play?

John didn't have to guess at the tune. The detective was suddenly singing in a voice as deep as his normal speaking voice, but raspy too. John felt his guts jump to his throat when he realized that he could sing and beautifully so. It took John a moment to realize that the song was Teddy Pendergrass' _It don't hurt now_. John used to sing this song extremely loud in the shower to annoy Sherlock while he was thinking. Sherlock particularly disliked the song because of its "sentiment". Now he was willingly singing it but had changed the words to it, as if turning it back on John.

 _I used to bleed every night,_

 _Spill my heart, my veins for you,_

 _In prison, I'd pray,_

 _To get back to you..._

 _I couldn't sleep for the beating,_

 _I'd just lie in chains and bleed,_

 _And none of it has changed,_

 _There's just purpose to the pain._

 _Still hurts now,_

 _But it still hurts now…_

What floored John more than anything, in the end, was that Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to his presence in the small crowd of street folk. This strange serendipity of music had come off the top of his head. Losing his amazing mind had mainly been emotionally cathartic. Now John was seeing the heart of the man whose sole merit had long been determined by his head.

And then in mid-stream, oblivious yet, Sherlock started singing and playing the chorus to Elton John's _Sacrifice_. Only once again, he'd changed the words:

 _Stone cold heart, but saved by you_

 _Some things I could have done better maybe, 'fore I was through_

 _Still, was no sacrifice,_

 _Just to put it to the sword,_

 _Two people fighting two different wars,_

 _Still, no sacrifice, still no sacrifice, just no sacrifice to Fall…._

Now John was crying. Sherlock continued to play over the musical part of that song and fell back into the classical music he was known to be fond of. Raz whistled loudly.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were in love, Holmes!" Raz was clapping. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mm...love...That's a terribly vague idea. What kind of love? The kind that has flowers or the sort with roots? Brothers, or fathers, or spouses...Hell, people even "love" their pets. Sentiment and all that. You don't know what you're talking about until you bleed. Otherwise, do shut up." Sherlock looked up then, realizing that John was in the crowd. He hopped down from the rubbish barrel then. Nodded to the crowd and kicked the hat to Raz.

"Here, keep that. Share that with some of the hungry ones, alright? If I catch you passing it out to smackheads it comes out of your backside. Do you vaguely understand?" Sherlock tilted his head. Raz laughed.

"Oi, alright, I get it. You only work for good causes." Raz snuffed soft annoyed laughter.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John for a long, withering moment. Then he disappeared down the street before John could gather his wits.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9:**

John gave up following Sherlock after a few hours. When he found him again, it was completely by accident. On a green way bridge in Hyde Park, looking down at swans on a new pond.

Sherlock stood on the rail, hand trembling over thin air. John froze. His heart was in his throat. Even in the knowledge that the swan pond was no such great distance as St. Bartholomew's epic tumble, he still tasted tears. It was beyond fathoming how much John hurt for Sherlock now. His friend who had died for him in all the ways that counted. This dear man was on the ledge again.

"I've been looking for you...oh, everywhere. Looks like when I come to catch my breath, finally, there you are." John let out a relieved sigh. If he pretended like everything was fine, maybe the ruse would, at last, convince them.

Sherlock swallowed. His violin case hung precariously over his arm, upsetting his balance. John rushed to him and caught his wrist. They stood there on the ledge, staring at each other with wide eyes.

John swallowed. Sherlock hadn't said a word to him directly in days. When would the silence break?

"That's a good thing you did for Raz. Didn't know you could sing…"John thought he might as well get to the point. Sherlock looked down at John's shaking hand as it clasped his wrist for dear life. The doctor's finger had subconsciously moved to take the detective's pulse. Death hung in the air between them with the same perfume of roses. The same humid weight of funereal tears. They'd known grief for far too long. It was eating them like acids. It chiseled them into a sculpture caught on this bridge as if paused in time.

"That's just it, though, isn't it? A swan song...One last dying attempt at music before the light ends…"Sherlock's eyes trained to the pond. John watched the swans swimming in infinity loops through the quiet waters.

"You know what I've learned, Sherlock, from being broken?" John's voice dropped an octave. The doctor's hand subconsciously slid to lace his fingers with the detective's. As if to shake on some preconceived agreement, the two felt strength pass down their arms. John eased Sherlock back onto the pavement and stood holding his hand for dear life. They truly looked odd now to the passerby, but neither had the presentness of mind to register their appearance for what it was.

Sherlock was decidedly silent, waiting for John to speak. John cleared his throat.

"I've learned that no one breaks alone, is what. I've found that if your pieces are jagged, then mine are blunt and rounded off. It's almost as if I've had my heart carved out by something soft as cotton. Like the unforgiving pain of torture happened to me vicariously in you. You saved me so much trouble and ruined me all at the same time. And I thank you." John smiled. Sherlock gave him a look of complete bafflement.

"Whatever do you mean?" Sherlock swallowed and his wrist quaked in John's grip. John felt his thumb trace the back of his friend's hand in small circles. As if he was trying to guide that shallow pulse to follow the right current. As if his touch could change the tempo of Sherlock's life force and give him back a portion of himself.

"I mean that if you're losing your mind to all the little breaks then so am I. And I think the only way you'll ever find some realm of normalcy is if you stop trying to gather the stray pieces of you and rather match the puzzle to the stray pieces of me. That we could be broken together...Does that make any sense?" John took a step around Sherlock, putting himself between his friend and that lonely ledge again.

"You mean...We could use the point where torture riveted the two of us as some sort of relational fulcrum?" One of Sherlock's brows arched up as if punctuating his question. John smiled at his friend. Felt truly grounded now as the shaking in their hands subsided.

"Yes...More or less." John pulled his friend gently closer. Sherlock stepped closer, peering downward into John's eyes with thousand interviews to frame. John was patient, ready to answer every question.

"How do you establish a balance between the completely unbalanced?" Sherlock shook his head, eyes fluttering. John swallowed.

"You add weight to counterweight. You died for me. Now, it's my job to help you live. What do you need to make that happen? Let me get it for you, somehow…" John pointed his index finger to Sherlock's heart.

Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips.

"You wouldn't judge me? Because what I might need to ask for...It just seems like too much." Sherlock gritted his teeth. John gently scoffed.

"Could it possibly equal the same amount as the blood you shed?" John's voice broke up. It raised a bit in volume and dropped as a lady and her young daughter walked by, wide-eyed to have overheard something like that.

Sherlock tilted his head.

"Well,...If I told you I needed you...To never leave my side. Would that be too much to ask?" Sherlock frowned. John shook his head, jaw having gone slack.

"What makes you think I'd settle for anything less?" John was afraid he didn't want to hear the answer.

"I hear the way that people talk about you. About us...You know, with what happened to your relationship with Mary being sabotaged by me. The public didn't know the details and... Well, I think that most everyone thinks I've just used you. That you have so much more potential than to live out the rest of your days in the macabre shadow of Baker Street. I...I've imposed so much of my lifestyle on you. You have the conducive potential to draw in a wife, raise a family, leave a stellar legacy on the domestic face of England…"Sherlock looked back at the water, eyes shining with his painful thoughts.

"And yet, I have drawn you into this life. With the murder and madness that I entertain daily. The jeopardy of my caring for you in the midst of the warfare I never leave behind. Mycroft said I would get you killed and that would be payback for all the agents I could have gotten killed trying to save you…"Sherlock tilted his head and sighed bitterly.

"But God help me, John...I can't bear the thought now, after all that...I don't think I could be alone."Sherlock shook his head.

"I mean if I needed to. If it was better for you...But...That would be more torture than-"Sherlock shuddered, freehand fluttering to his middle. He sucked his teeth.

"I don't know if it's just more want than need, but...I could be okay with being myself now, it's just….God! I don't want to be alone...Not anymore." Sherlock looked away.

John firmly turned Sherlock away from the bridge and started pulling him deeper into the park. Sherlock followed along at his heels, silent now, confused. John led him out of earshot, off the path and under the trees. There he motioned for him to kneel beside him in the grass.

"What?"

"Humor me."

Sherlock got down where he and John were eye-level. John was shaking. He nodded and cleared his throat.

"Before you...I was the one who was alone. Now...Now, shh! Listen, here. I don't ever. Ever! Want to hear you say anything like what you just said again. Understood? You're not...You won't ever be. Alone. You will never be alone again. And HANG what people said! I'm not as much the sissy people frame me up to be. If I didn't want to be part of your life, it was on me to walk away. Your lifestyle is our lifestyle. You are my family, you completely clueless creature!" John shook his head. Sherlock tilted his head as John pressed both of his palms against his chest.

"You are my family and you are the only family I mean to have. After everything, I've decided. No more adventures in domesticity for John Watson. You, sir, you are more jealous than any wife and certainly enough maintenance for 12 babies." John's eyes rolled and they both started laughing. John took him under his arms then and held him so they both would stop shaking.

"In all honesty, I mean that. You've been the one vine to replace all the branches of my family tree. Never forget that. I have some practical advice for you, brother. Come home...We'll get take out. You need to eat, for God's sakes. Take a shower. Get some sleep. Resume some sense of domestic life to give you the strength we need to get on with the primary importance of saving the world all the time." John laughed because Sherlock was extremely perplexed.

John ushered him to his feet. Sherlock reached in his pockets and started looking for cab fare.

"Right, well, I...I think I left most of my things in the flat so...My wallet." Sherlock shook his head, annoyed at himself for his absent-mindedness.

"I've got the cab, okay? Hey...Look here, Sherlock. Friends protect people. Family shelters and builds people. That's what we are now. It'll take work on my part, not yours. I've got you now, alright? I've got you. Come on." John laced his arm through Sherlock's. They quietly walked back to the road where John got the cab. He practically carried Sherlock to it and set him down in it.

"As far as the sheltering goes, I'm going to have to set some rules up for you. Some family rules, you take my meaning?" John wrapped an arm around Sherlock and nodded to the cabby to drive off, ignoring the look he was giving them. Sherlock swallowed.

"Rules?"

"Right, because see families have rules. It's the sort of peculiar thing that frees people up and structures them. It means we fit. If we're family now, we need some of those. And I've got one in particular in mind." John nodded. Sherlock frowned, fearful for a bit. Then he nodded.

"Right, so whatever's going on in your head, I can infer it had something to do with what people said about the Mary Morstan scandal? I don't want you reading the junk papers. I mean it, Sherlock. No more press for you. Nothing but the daily _MarketWatch_ or the crime reports. And we can get those straight to your phone." John stared at Sherlock for a long time. Sherlock smirked after a while and pulled a large wad of newspapers out of his violin case. One had plastered across the front:

 _A Fake Genius' Love Triangle! The saga continues._

"Very well, Mum." Sherlock winked. John snatched up the paper and wadded it into a large ball, tossing it out the cab's window into a nearby rubbish bin they were stalled by.

"And no more wandering off...Okay? You scared the hell out of me." John jostled Sherlock's shoulders.

"You would have made an excellent mother, really." Sherlock purred with half-hearted maliciousness. Then he did the unexpected. He reached over and kissed John's cheek like someone would their mother, patting him on top of the head. This whole act was meant to be teasingly patronizing but really translated his raw endearment. Then he leaned against the cab's wall and almost instantly fell fast asleep.

John chuckled and shook his head. He stared out the window a strange feeling of peace filling him from head to toe until they turned down Baker Street again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 **Trigger warning: This chapter mentions self-harm.**

 **A/N: Sherlock's medical condition here is called DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder. I chose to write his mental state this way because I have this problem myself.**

 **I have C-PTSD with DID symptoms because I was raised in a religious ritual/torture cult setting. My abuse is similar to the things Sherlock experienced although more along the end of psychological torture. For me, writing is an act of catharsis. I had an episode today which prompted this. I hope you will understand and not have your feelings too deeply hurt by what you read next.**

John knew going to dinner with his family so soon after what happened with Mary was a bad idea. Still, he was feeling a bit unplugged with all of his friends save Sherlock turning on him afterward. Besides, Sherlock had a case in the bar of this restaurant. It would kill two birds, as the old saying went.

"You-You will never find a woman if you continue with him." Harry spat between long glugging sips of champagne. Mum and Dad had gone to the dance floor, leaving the siblings alone for longer than John would like.

"I didn't ask your opinion on it, Harriet." John sipped a shot of Craig, trying to ignore the fact that Harry's statement was probably true. Sherlock's line of work took a lot out of both the detective and his assistant. What woman would want to share her man with all of that?

"Well, you should get on with it anyway. Why do you have to live with him? Come on, John. It's not like it's bad. Are you sleeping with him?" Harry tilted her head.

"Hell no!" John came back. He swallowed. Unless you counted sleeping next to him because he couldn't make it through a full night any longer without vivid nightmares. Or worse. John shook his head and sipped more of the whiskey remembering what had happened last night.

 _"Sherlock, mate. What are you doing?" John had fallen asleep next to Sherlock on his bed. They'd been watching telly in John's room a few nights to both fall asleep. It seemed to help Sherlock more than anything to have a distraction until he just tapped out._

 _"I...I...don't know." Sherlock was pulling most of his clothes off. After a moment, he was just standing in the middle of the room in his boxers. John tilted his head._

 _"You...Are you stuffy in here? I'll crack the window?" John sat up. There was no fear. Only calm. He was fairly certain from personal experience he already knew what this was._

 _"That's...It's not like I could feel it. It's not me...It's not me, is it?" Sherlock's eyebrows arched. He reached to John's nightstand and pulled out a switchblade from amongst John's things. John held his breath, worried now. How should he handle this?_

 _"Don't do that to yourself, okay? Hey, no one's going to hurt you anymore, alright?" John reached out a hand to Sherlock gently. Sherlock traced the blade over one of his scars. It took John a moment to realize he'd cut himself._

 _"I hate that I do this, but...I don't know...It's something that needs to be done." Sherlock's voice was weirdly sing-song like he had no idea what he was even saying. He traced the blade without feeling over several of the places he'd been previously lacerated. John quietly got to his feet. Sherlock was panting now, getting a bit sick even though he showed no expression signs of distress. John only guessed at his sickness because his mouth started watering a bit. Then, John knew he may have to forcibly intervene to keep him from reopening all of his torture wounds._

 _"And why's that?" John wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind. The young man's shoulders shivered like a horse does when it is covered in flies. He licked his teeth._

 _"I don't know?…"Sherlock's hands felt over his body until he was reaching for the top of the surgical castration wound. John took the hand with the knife then and carefully plucked it from his trembling fingers._

 _"Well, if you don't know then it doesn't need to be done. Hey, don't pick at that."John noticed that Sherlock was driving his finger into his navel where the incision his torturers used to surgically sterilize him had begun. John plied Sherlock's arms away from harming his own body and wrapped them around his own._

 _"J-John?" Sherlock's voice was like that of a teenager for a moment._

 _"Hey...I'm right here."_

 _"I know...I think I know."_

 _"Are you okay? You were just watching telly and then you were undressing and cutting yourself…"John gritted his teeth. Sherlock looked up slowly._

 _"I did that? Why did I do that?" Sherlock shook his head._

 _"I don't know. You tell me?" John tenderly pushed Sherlock's hair off his forehead._

 _"I, um...They itched. But not like "oh, I need to scratch that.'. It was more that the thought of them was itchy like...like it wasn't right if they didn't throb a little or they were supposed to be bleeding. But….I don't know why I did that...I'm sorry." Sherlock frowned. John reached over him and took down a First Aid kit, dressing the scratch Sherlock had made before he'd stopped him. He dressed the cut quietly and then reached and helped Sherlock dress again._

 _When all of that was done, he hugged him close._

 _"John, there really was no logical explanation for that. I've heard of people doing things like that when they are drunk, but I was almost completely lucid. It's just...It felt like I couldn't stop? Sort of like I was sleepwalking in a vivid dream. Like it itched and...I'm sorry." Sherlock was humiliated. John shook his head._

 _"Sherlock, that's just a symptom of PTSD. It's called dissociation. Male patients often have that. Basically, your mind is trying to handle repeat trauma by checking out and acting like it happened to someone else. So, you feel like you're not really in your body. Sometimes people act out whatever happened to them like that will fix it. With you, I guess you just have a compulsive issue as well. It's like your body is stuck feeling all that hurt so it's sort of telling you that it's in pain. The only release to all that psychosomatic tension is to then actually be in pain." John shook his head. This was awful._

 _"Oh, well, that would be a physiological explanation, then. I always hate not knowing. Thank you, John. I really am sorry." Sherlock nuzzled John, hugging him closer._

 _"Don't apologize anymore. The brain is a bizarre little thing, especially for some one-half batty with genius like yourself. Here, it honestly is stuffy in here. Let's get some tea, then, eh?" John stood and lifted Sherlock's face in his cupped palms. Sherlock was smiling as if nothing had happened. John felt a sudden bit of peace pass through him. Maybe it wasn't that big of a deal? As long as Sherlock wasn't left alone in a vulnerable state, he should be fine, shouldn't he?_

"I bet you are sleeping with him and you just don't want anyone to know." Harry laughed.

"Oi lay off."John didn't notice the shadow of Mum and Dad over him then.

"Well, John. That poses a question." John's Dad bristled. John felt a cringe overtake him. They weren't going to ask about Sherlock's involvement with the whole Mary scandal, were they?

"What would that be?" John sat up, adjusted his suit collar. He was annoyed. Annoyed that he'd had to dress so fancy to even get into this place. Annoyed with their judgmental looks.

Just so very annoyed…

"Well, dear, we just...It's...All that on the news. How do you think? I mean, honestly, if you do have boyfriends that's your business but...Sherlock…"Mum tried to beat around the bush.

"Is not to be trusted. Not after everything."John's father was quite blunt.

John felt like he'd been slapped.

"He's family!" John stood up.

"No, he's...We're not so sure he's not with the Mob. John, you're too close to him to see it." Harry rolled her eyes, dropping another rum ball down her gullet. John shook his head.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. He's...To me, he's as much family as the lot of you. A brother. I wanted you to meet him finally and now you're saying…" John's voice died off. Because Harry screamed into her palm. Sherlock had just rounded the bar.

"Ah,...Oh, hello, Watsons. Let's see, Mr. Watson, you're a tax accountant who recently lost his share in a large firm. Mrs. Watson is a pediatrician and the inspiration for John's medical profession. You're Harry the not-brother and you have developed a bit of a gambling habit within the last two weeks, probably at Chesterfield's if we're to go by the schoolyard chalk on your left shoe heel. Good, that covers introductions. I think by now you should know who I am." Sherlock was scratching his arms maniacally. The tuxedo he'd been constrained to wear in this miserable bar was soaking up blood, most of which was his own. John's jaw dropped.

"See, John, this is precisely what we mean!" John's father slapped the bar which upset Mum. John ignored his parents, directing his next words carefully and straight at Sherlock who looked a bit upset himself by Mr. Watson's sudden reaction to him. Perhaps he'd hoped John's heritage was as impressive as John was when it came to saint-like friendliness?

"Did you...How the hell did you get all bloody like that?" John reached for his medical kit, which he'd put discreetly in a briefcase for this all too fancy bar. Harry scoffed.

"Ooh, do you two really have to play doctor in here?" Harry's muttering barely caught John's attention.

"I..Oh, it's alright. It's not like I'd feel it...It's not me now, is it?" Sherlock smiled. John realized he'd said that last night when he'd had that little episode. He was losing his temper, so he finally snapped, more at his natural family than at his adopted one.

"I'll say if it's alright or not, now! You've only been bloody well carved into and _eviscerated_ to keep me safe from the syndicate if you don't remember that, damn it, Sherlock! This had better not be another one of those things!" John looked over his shoulder at the crime scene that Sherlock had just busted. Greg came into the bar, eyes wide when he saw Sherlock's clothes. He smiled and nodded in John's direction.

The Watsons fell silent. Then, Mrs. Watson whimpered. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's outburst as if they were discussing the solar system. Then, he pounced the Watson matriarch.

"Oh, it's true. Relax, I wasn't part of the syndicate I was saving him from. If you have to ask, I actually contract with the British government. It pays our rent and is dangerous enough to keep your son dreadfully busy as my personal physician." Sherlock smiled darkly at John's father, who drew out a loud huff.

"Hey, thank you for the um, near medical attention, but I need to go inform Lestrade that it was the lobbyist and not the bartender who pulled off this little Ponzi scheme. Bloody inspector couldn't handle a 5 o'clock homicide if the Queen's life depended on it! Just came to see if I could borrow your pen? Right, I will. You can have it back in a moment. Thank you, John." Sherlock chattered and pulled the pen straight from behind John's ear, patting his shoulder as he skipped off. John stared after his friend, gutted, knowing what came next.

"I really don't think you should have any more to do with that…"John's father scoffed. For a second, so endeared was John to the man in his direct line of vision, he barely heard the remark. Then, he turned to face his father, almost in tears. He felt fury turn him to ice. A brutal smile curled one edge of his lips.

"He...saved my life? Over and over. As in, they tortured him. Like brutally. He saved your son's life. You owe him a lot more credit than you realize." John shook his head. His Dad's nose crinkled.

"He put you in the position to need to be saved. John, damn it, you're a grown-up. I won't tell you what to do or not. But...I don't think we'll be visiting for a while as long as that's around."John's father turned on his heel and left. John froze.

Mum swallowed, running her hand over her mouth.

"John...Um...Take care. And don't...Don't get hurt." She left then too.

Harry came up behind John and kissed him gross and mockingly on the cheek.

"Well, there you have it, lover boy. It's your family or it's your lovers. You can't have both." With that, Harry was gone.

John stood lonely in the center of the bar for a long stunned moment. Then, he looked over again. Sherlock stood, behaving much the same as he always had as he talked case details with Greg. He even drew a diagram on a napkin. All the while he seemed completely oblivious to his bloodstained clothes. As if someone else was wearing them.

"You good, mate?" The bartender came John's way.

"Oh, I'll take another shot of Craig, yeah? It's all good, right? It's not...It's not happening to me." John let his hand run down his cheek, smudging away Harry's gross kiss. He just realized that with that last act Judas had finally receded from his life. Everyone except for Sherlock was officially gone or vaguely in the background now.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11:**

 **Trigger warning: Bullying, accidental self-harm**

It had erupted overnight. The firestorm of the once diluted press. Perhaps it was the Chief, perhaps it was someone with a grudge that death had done nothing to absolve. John couldn't care to guess. Yet madness drove him to the silent vigil of the Diogenes club that day. Mycroft met him, face the color of broken cherries, and lead him by the arm outside.

"You called me about your brother, I take it." John's nails were bloody. He'd chewed them halfway through when he'd seen the last satire piece Reilly printed in the Sun:

 **The Blooded Return of a Sociopath "Genius":**

 **By Kitty Reilly:**

 _Mary had a little lamb, little lamb,_

 _Fleece of which was white and red,_

 _Good as dead,_

 _Or so NSY told us so,_

 _So all the king's horses and all the king's men,_

 _Had stumbled with Mary to the devil's gate,_

 _And there lay the pieces, like pieces o' eight,_

 _The pieces of Humpty ol' Dumpty, twice shattered egg-head_

 _Say what, but Sherlock's good as dead,_

 _Liar before and a liar again,_

 _All the king's horses and all the king's men,_

 _And how did old Sherlock nip off from the pen?_

 _With the Serbs and the gold cut from his teeth-_

And uglier words were said, but John couldn't read them in Mrs. Hudson's copy of the Sun. He'd spilled tea all over it this morning, choking on his breakfast in consternation.

Mycroft silently pulled a mobile from his shirt pocket. He pulled up a video streaming from The Telegraph and hit the play button without speaking.

A journalist came on screen. Her eyes were wide and shiny, and she seemed rather depressed.

"Kitty Reilly, a reporter for the Sun, has been known to cause a public stir with her political satire recently. Still, her public harassment of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of MI5 and NSY fame, has been the subject of recent public controversy. Nothing short of murderous today…" The journalist differed the screen to another telecaster on the ground.

"We're here at the scene where Kitty Reilly and a conspiracy media group called TruthBlood, chased Sherlock Holmes into oncoming traffic." The reporter's face was twisting in horror. John nearly passed out, but Mycroft caught him. The reporter turned to the back of an ambulance. Sherlock was sitting there, face in his hands. He had no idea the camera was on him.

"Mr. Holmes, sir, can you tell us what happened?" The reporter took Sherlock by the wrist.

Sherlock looked up. John gave a chirp of pain. There were bloody scrapes on Sherlock's prominent features. His hands floated near them like a person with battered syndrome. His eyes were wide, hair all a mess in his face and bloody as well.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock looked in earnest at the reporter. He opened his mouth and said:

 _"Ja sam ovde."_

Which is Serbian for:

"I am here." as if he were grounding himself.

"Mr. Holmes, could you repeat that please?" The reporter looked at the camera in shock. Sherlock shook his head and then started animatedly talking, in his rapid deductive way-

Completely in Serbian.

"Oh, um...It appears, that Mr. Holmes-"

Anthea suddenly pushed her way through the crowd.

"I am Lara Yance. Mr. Holmes' interpreter." Anthea held a badge, the camera crew admitted her.

"Sherlock-Could you repeat your answer for me this time?"

Sherlock looked confused, unaware that he was not speaking English. Anthea nodded and turned to the camera.

"Mr. Holmes said: I am here. In England. I know that. But you people have made it very much like Hell. I'd best be off. I had work to do. When can I go back to work? I had an appointment. I am an agent of the English government and harassing me about my work is the same as assaulting a police officer, a librarian, a teacher. When will you people...er...wrap your silly little brains around this?" Anthea had been a godsend. Mycroft said a soft blessing under his breath the moment she'd finished speaking. She took Sherlock's hand.

"It's alright, dear. I've come to take you to our dictation lessons. You've been doing so well with re-learning English. There's no reason to stop now." Anthea smiled. Sherlock pointed an index finger to his head.

 _"Mozete li to dati na popravku?"_

Which was asking if she could get his mind repaired like it was an object.

"Oh, dear, Sherlock. Oh, dear…"Anthea turned away from the reporters.

"Please. Please, I am authorized for his care. If he's not in a vital emergency, I'd very much like to take him back to his own physician." Anthea was talking to the medic, but the reporters would not let it be.

"What's he saying?" the man with the mic gasped.

Anthea turned to the camera.

"Mr. Holmes...is...very tired." Anthea's bottom lip trembled. John's heart leaped in his chest, and he gave a soft cry into his hand. Mycroft looked pained as if he'd break down crying. John laid a palm between his shoulder blades.

"This aired at 16 hundred hours. Which was almost two hours ago. God only knows why they've been delayed...John, I'm not a medical man. I've no idea why the PTSD would make my brother lose his ability to speak English. It has only happened once before. For about a month after we escaped Clarice-or Ms. Morstan's-torture facility." Mycroft coughed. John nodded.

"Well, that's not entirely uncommon for prisoners of war." John braced himself as a long black car pulled up. Anthea stepped out. Sherlock stepped out too, on crutches.

" _De se, brate!_ " He said with deep affection. He was looking past Mycroft, right at John, oblivious to the words coming out of his mouth.

Anthea locked the car and held out a hand to steady to Sherlock. She swallowed. And with a hurried hand gesture she said:

"That is...Like an informal, a bit crude way even perhaps, way of saying "hello". Think he's trying to be cheeky, aren't you, dear?" Anthea cringed. Sherlock went into a rapid-fire description, deductively and all, of what had happened to him today. He had no idea that he was not speaking English. Mycroft was reduced to tears, to the horror of all of them. Sherlock paused, mid-sentence, stunned.

 _Straaaashno_...It didn't take Anthea to interpret whatever Sherlock had said that time. He was clearly deeply upset for his brother. Limping over, he dropped the crutches and hugged him to his shoulder.

"You...You are..you understand us so that is...I'm...I've no idea why I can't compose myself." Mycroft held Sherlock close, discreetly assessing his physical damage with quaking hands.

Sherlock looked at John and his upset became evident. John smiled and suddenly, he did the unexpected:

 _"Khe chare,_ Sherlock." Which was a Pashto dialect word for "hello".

Sherlock flinched.

"John, what…?" Sherlock stumbled over to John. Anthea and Mycroft flinched, surprised. John held out his arms, laughing softly, even through the pallor on his face, at Sherlock's confusion.

" _Deer wakht wosho na khary_." (Pashto for "long time, no see") John beckoned Sherlock closer and hugged him.

"What the hell are you...are you saying?" Sherlock nuzzled John. John laughed and breathed relief.

"Well, you weren't speaking English. So, I thought, if I spoke Pashto which is a language I learned in the war zone, your fabulous brain would take over and force you to respond to me with your rational mind, which is preprogrammed posh English, mm?" John kissed Sherlock's forehead bowed to his shoulder suddenly overcome with relief that he was mostly fine. Then, he winked at Mycroft, who was wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"Oh, so he's a much cleverer sort than I'd ever given him credit." Mycroft's face settled again into the sour expression it often wore when Sherlock had flustered him into emotions.

"Nah, it just takes one to know one. Hey, you alright?" John had discreetly been medically examining Sherlock all this while even as the young detective sort of wilted against him.

"I'm gravely behind on the follow up I promised Lestrade. Suppose I'll have to phone him, which I detest doing. Still, he'll need what I've found communicated verbally, and I couldn't well do that when I apparently lost my native tongue, now could I?" Sherlock shivered in John's arms, so, so very tired.

"You'll need to tell us, you know, how it happened. After we've had some, sleep, yeah? Care to take us home, Anthea?" John looked at Anthea and made the sign that Sherlock was actually alright. She wiped a cloth over her forehead, nodding.

"I'll e-file you a report. I can check his sutures better when I've had time to remove the bandages, but for now, I believe he only bumped his head a bit. Must be the reason for the gibberish relapse. Isn't concussed, I shouldn't think." John smiled. Mycroft nodded then.

"We've had 12 physicians look at him before when this happened, Doctor Watson. You take one look at him and he's recovered tremendously already." Mycroft shook his head.

"Well, you have many fine physicians in your employ, Mycroft, but none of them are his doctor." John smiled and gently led Sherlock to the car. He fell asleep in his lap, and neither John nor Anthea exchanged a word about the lack of seatbelts.


End file.
